


Of Murders Most Foul...

by Astray



Series: Bones, Skulls, and Kittens [10]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder, Nix is not a sociopath but she knows how to be creepy, Non-Graphic Violence, Premeditation, References to Hannibal Lecter, if murder counts as violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24164020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: Nix has a rule: she doesn't work for people she knows. But there are times when exceptions can be made, for friends. Especially when it comes to abusive parents.
Series: Bones, Skulls, and Kittens [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/720660
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Of Murders Most Foul...

**Author's Note:**

> Killer and Anomaly belong to [Starofwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starofwinter/pseuds/Starofwinter).  
> Stick and Poke belong to [Kristsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristsune/pseuds/kristsune).  
> Zetiva, Faze, and Natil belong to [Arwen00710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwen00710/pseuds/Arwen00710). 
> 
> (I literally own nothing in this fic except my murder child.)

Nix had always made a point of not taking any initiatives where her night job was concerned. But going to the tattoo parlour that day, she had not seen head or tail of Killer and that alone was enough to send alarms off in her mind. And make her reconsider her stance on initiatives. 

Stick and Poke were ever professional. However, she hadn't become who she was - and survived - by being unobservant. Something was definitely off. If asked what tipped her off, she would not have been able to say precisely what it was. Just a mix of the way they spoke, their moves, just a sharper than usual, the fact that they were barely speaking, yet acting like they still had conversations. It was not exactly surprising, but combined with the rest and Anomaly’s absence, it was jarring. And she strongly suspected it had something to do with Killer - he was almost always at the shop, a bright presence. 

So she asked if they preferred to end the session earlier. She did not ask how Killer was. It was not her place to pry, even if she was concerned. As with her students, or her sons, she trusted that if they wanted to speak, they would.

The session ended earlier. She only spoke up when Stick was done wrapping up her arm.  _ No more lace for this arm, no more. _

“Can I do something to help? Not as a customer but as a person.”

Stick considered her question for a moment, consulting with Poke silently. They looked grim, but maybe she was seeing things.

“I guess you could. But you made it clear that we couldn't hire you.”

The parents. She nodded, indicating that she got it. It was not the first time she heard of Killer’s parents, although she heard most of it through the grapevine. And what she heard was not pretty.

She checked, there was no one else in the parlour. “The cost is too great, and not something I would like either of you to ever pay.”

Neither of them insisted. They remained silent until she paid.

“If there is anything else you need, I’d be happy to help.” 

Stick nodded. “We’ll call you. Either way, we’ll see you for your next appointment, to check the design of your next sleeve.”

“That means more lace, Stick.” She gave him a half-smile. 

“You’re not the worst customer we’ve had. I’ll make an exception. December, Saturday the 7th. Gives you time to reconsider.”

“Yep. Until then, you kids take care of yourselves.” She gave them her best smile and left.

As soon as she was out of sight, her expression changed to what Jango called her ‘resting murder face’. She was seething. And yes, she would not let them hire her. It did not mean she would stay put. She couldn't murder all the shitty parents she met. Not because it was unethical, but because it would not be serial killing but a near genocide. If Abusive Parents were a genus. But Killer’s parents? There would be no traceable link. And refusing a contract from Stick and Poke meant they would never have to lie if questioned. She needed to bid her time and plan carefully.

She absently made her way to her car, and drove home without paying too much attention, her mind churning over means and timing.

Two weeks later, she was sitting at the table outside, a lit cigarette idly held between her index and middle finger, reading her notes. Killer’s parents had to go. She had not liked what she had seen in Stick and Poke. It was very serious, whatever it was. She had a plan but that would take time to set up. Which was good because she was not about to do it while her tattoo was healing. Good thing she had to focus, else the itchiness would drive her up the wall. 

Jango had left earlier that day, and would not say when he would be back, which usually meant he would be gone for about a month. It was best this way. It would also have been best if Walon had gone too but not this time - he had barely gotten back from another job, and Mird was currently hoarding their biped. To be absolutely honest, she would have less qualms discussing that particular job with Walon than with Jango. Something to do with moral compass. Which, in her case, worked a lot like Jack Sparrow's.

But first things first, she needed more dirt on them. Anything to make sure that they knew that she knew. She would have to reach out to Zetiva, and her own grandmother. That woman knew everything there was to know. She also would need to dig into Killer’s medical files - history often proved that medical records were a surefire way to find evidence. It was a good thing she had not been hired to do the job: she would have had to ask for Killer’s authorisation and she did not want to involve him. 

As for the  _ modus operandi  _ itself, she had an idea. But it would mean involving her grandmother, who knew well what kind of life she was living. She might also need Zetiva, as a backup. It might just be her best job to date. And she would not be able to use it on her resume. 

She finished her cigarette, and opened her computer. Time to research what kind of shady deals the Taylors were involved in. And boy, even with her limited talents when it came to finding that type of intel, it did not take her too long to find information. Nothing conclusive, but enough of a lead that there was something. She called some of her professional contacts who could find that information, for a price, and who would not ask questions, for another price. 

It took a good part of the night, and the next day, for the ones she had reached out to called her back. She was to have all the information within ten days, provided she paid an account, and with an extra, for the rushed order. Fine by her. 

She checked on Walon before leaving, leaving him a post-it to warn him that there was plenty of food ready, and that the cats had been fed. She would be back later. It was oddly domestic, but she functioned like that with Jango, and it worked fine. No reason why it would not be working with Walon. Who had had time to get used to the fact that it was a bit of a madhouse. 

She made it at Zetiva’s for tea - high tea, really, as it was a Sunday. She had managed not to say anything about the reason of her visit until they were halfway through the second teapot and Zetiva spoke up:

“You didn’t come all this way just to have tea when you can make it yourself.”

“Yes, but you guys have scones.” Nix sighed. “But you’re right. I’m fishing.”

Zetiva raised an eyebrow at her. “Spit it out. I can’t help you unless you speak.”

“Do you know the Taylors?”

Zetiva looked pensive for a moment, before answering. “I was at some of their parties with Natil.” Her tone told Nix everything she needed to know about her distate. “I remember that they have a kid. He did not attend the latest ones, if memory serves.” She cast Nix a look that was way too perceptive. “Work?”

Nix shook her head. “Call it a whim. No one hired me.” She took a sip of her tea. “Besides, my family is not much better, when it comes to some people. Though I have to say, they did chill.”

Zetiva huffed. “Wonder why… But, back to the topic. If you want to contact them, I can definitely play middle woman. Or back you up. Any idea how you want to play that one?”

“My grandmother runs several charities.”

Zetiva’s eyes widened. “You. Are devious. And probably brilliant."

"Probably?!" She sounded scandalised.

Zetiva waved her off. "So, you need someone who would have recommended them to you?”

“Aye. And it can’t be grandmama, because it would be a tad too convenient.” 

“To be fair, I’m not sure they’ll look further than your last name.”

Nix smiled. It was indeed very convenient, coming from old world money. 

They finished their tea, and it was then that Nix got an idea. She asked Zetiva if she would be okay with Nix asking Natil and Faze about the Taylors’s son's medical files. 

“Honestly, you can give it a shot. But know that if they refuse, I won’t pressure them.”

They waited for Natil and Faze’s return, and Zetiva eclipsed herself discreetly.  _ I don’t need to know more. _ Zetiva was no fool, Nix knew that. And she was also very aware of how short Zetiva’s fuse was when it came to abusive parents, courtesy of her own relatives. Tales of how she tore through her own sister had made her legendary.

Natil and Faze were surprisingly easy to convince. Although the instant she said she wanted to ‘expose abusive parents’, there was no convincing necessary. They both accepted to have a look at their own practice and hospital, and offered to use their networks to find out more, in case the parents were ‘doctor shopping’. She accepted, of course. 

“Though, you have to tell me. Wouldn’t you be in trouble if anyone found out?”

Faze stared like she had said something so dumb it could be funny. “Of course. But no one will. And don’t you think it would gall every single member of the medical staff involved to know that people like that got away?”

“Besides,” said Natil, “I pledged to do no harm to my patients. The patients’ well-being trumps the interest of their relatives. And what could be considered neat and proper.” He gave her an enigmatic smile. And suddenly, she was very relieved that Natil was a doctor and not someone in her line of work. The thought alone was terrifying.

She ended up staying for dinner, and taking home more dessert - blueberry pie. And the assurance that they would give her a copy of everything they would find. Upon coming home, she found Walon unceremoniously flopped on the couch, the cats using him as a pillow. He glanced at her, not really reacting. She had no idea where he had been, but he looked knackered. 

“Going somewhere, with those bags?” The words were out of her mouth before she even thought about it, and she bit her lips. 

He glared at her, before sighing. “I can’t even be mad at you. Too tired.” 

She put away her keys, shoes, and jacket, before bringing the pie to the kitchen. The clock on the oven was at 10.35pm. Damn, much later than what she had expected. But still not that late for her. 

Nix made her way to the living-room, and asked Walon if he needed anything. She waited patiently for him to reply. She practically heard the cogs turning. 

“The Millenial staple destroying the world.”

She chortled. “Okay, avocado on toast incoming.” She gestured for Walon to stay put when she caught him trying to get up. “I’ll bring it to you, no problem. Mird will be mad if you move.” 

Making food always helped her stop thinking, which was good, even for something as simple as avocado toast. She made sure the bread was nicely golden, but still a bit soft, and spread the mashed avocado on top. She had found diced mango she had left over, and had put it with the avocado. And seasoning, she was not a monster. She brought a platter with the toasts, two mugs of verbena, and her yoghurt. She put the platter within reach, and gave Walon a tea towel, to avoid crumbs making their ways in the blankets. She nestled, and did not object when he moved for her to get under the blankets with him. He was watching a rerun of ‘Murder, she wrote’, of all things. 

“Can’t believe you watch this.” 

“I’m old. Can’t believe you brought me verbena. ”

“I'm old.” 

Walon huffed weakly, and relaxed. Mird decided that now was the time to try and steal her yoghurt. She managed to fend off the furball, but that was not exactly easy with a cat that was long enough to reach her hand even if she put it high in the air. They watched an episode. And another. And suddenly, Walon spoke again. 

“I don’t like it.” And it did not sound like he meant the show. 

"Hey, you asked for avocado toast, it's a bit late for that." She knew he was not speaking about the food. It was a conversation she already had had with him. With them both, depending which one was away. 

She sighed, and gently nudged Walon. “He’ll be fine. He’s like a cat, he’ll come back.” But there was no telling in what state, depending on the job. She had mended his injuries as often as he had hers. And she guessed that it was worse for Walon, because they worked together on the regular. 

Walon did not reply right away. Instead, he began petting Mird, who allowed it, and soon purred like an old tractor. 

“I hope you’re right.” 

And she did. She sure as hell did. Because nevermind the fact that the kids were old enough. She could not fathom being alone. Glancing at Walon, she could see it was not just her. Walon was cold, and had a tough shell. But she had seen how he could soften. And he usually softened around Jango. 

“How about I allow you to use me as a perfectly platonic pillow?” She wanted the company, but she would never pressure Walon or make him uncomfortable. They usually never bunked together, unless Jango decided that piling was the thing to do. In which case, neither of them had a choice, because Grumpy Fett was not fun to be around. 

She almost missed Walon’s tiny nod. But he followed soon after she made her way upstairs and got ready to sleep. In the unofficially dubbed ‘sleepy times’ room. Settling was a bit difficult, but once they had found a comfortable place, neither moved anymore, except for Nix's hand moving through Walon's hair and Mird trying to be comfortable with two bipeds. She could feel Walon relaxing after a while, his breathing deeper with sleep. She would never admit to it, but it was nice. And while Walon slept, Nix stayed up, contemplating her own schemes. 

It was an ungodly hour - around dawn when she jumped awake from uneasy doze in a Eureka moment that made Mird dash away and Walon spring upward halfway through a motion to get a weapon. And a very rusty "What the fuck Nix?!" Except all she could say was: "I know how." 

Only then did her eyes focus on Walon whose right eyebrow had reached new heights, and who would probably have murdered her if he could have gotten away with it. He grabbed her and pushed her backward until she was back on the bed and casually flung his arm across her as he flopped down.

"Now, for the love of weapons and murder, sleep."

And she did, though she did grab her phone to write down a single word.  _ Oysters. _

Life proceded as normal. Soon, Natil and Faze got back to her. And by getting back at her, they actually drove to her place to give her what they had found, unwilling to trust the information to a phone call or the internet. And it was probably for the best, because it forced her to stay calm and civil as they gave her their findings. 

“They did go doctor-shopping.” Faze was calm. Too calm. And she wondered again how terrifying he would be if he was in her line of work. She did not have time to ponder, as he went on. “Though they stuck to clinics and high-end care centers. But colleagues noticed things and kept records.”

She must have seemed puzzled, because Natil elaborated: “When we are faced with situations that are suspicious but not enough to call social services or the police, we make notes for other doctors and nurses, in case they come back. A broken arm is not suspicious, but several severe accidents close by, that’s a lot more suspicious.”

“You mean that you try to see patterns, because some abusers are smarter than others.”

They nodded. “It’s not police work, and it has its limits. While a parent with Munchausen by proxy can be found at length, it can take a long time. And they are not the sneaky ones.” 

“Now, the kid you asked us about. He’s been to our hospital several times. I treated him once. Never saw the parents, though, which is odd, because usually parents stick around. But I think you have enough to bury them.”

Faze’s smile was nasty, and Natil looked pissed. She must have looked the same. “Of course, since going to the police is not an option.”

“Nope,” agreed Natil, “we broke part of our oath, and let others do the same so we can give these to you. Because while we are sworn to not harm another person, we talked about it and chose to be literal about it. If giving you this helps you help this kid, that’s good.”

“But you have to swear,” added Faze, his expression grave, “that you will destroy these documents as soon as you are done with them. No one can use these against you, us, or our colleagues. And it is something we did once, for this specific kid.”

She nodded. “I understand. And I will destroy everything as soon as my task is done.” She knew that responsibility well, it was part of her trade. She had always been very careful with these. “No one else will look at these either.”

Their conversation veered to safer waters soon after, as Nix put the folders away, among her exam copies - no one would want to have a look at essays on Middle English Romances. After they took their leave she went to fetch herself a glass of wine - before opting for scotch. It was early, but she felt like she would need something strong. She went to her office and locked the door after putting up a sign that - jokingly said - ‘Mastermind at work’. She had found something referencing Lecter, but Jango had warned her that it might be a bit too close. Though now she was well on her way to get herself some free-range rude. 

She had to pause several times when reading. She almost stopped more than once. Her rage bled into her eyes, constricted her temples, and she had to breathe several times to let it flow. She felt sick, the same sick that got to her whenever she was faced with people she could not help. With her younger self. She clenched her teeth and powered through it, not pausing to eat or rest. If she stopped she would never be able to go back to it and so she kept going. Her tattoo did not even bother her as she took notes - precise enough to sting and vague enough to not give any indication about where she got her information from. And always, she saw Killer. His face, the expressions she had seen him wear. She saw the look on Stick and Poke’s faces. Rarely had targets made her so angry. 

It took her weeks. Weeks to lay down her plan. And when everything was ready, her plan ironed out, she reached out for her grandmother. The one they called grandmama. Grandmama Scaligieri was not the kind of socialite you would expect. She was uncompromising, and growing older made her harsher. She had never forgotten what it meant to be an aristocrat, though Nix herself never really understood. Now, Grandmama saw it all as a performance. And a way to support foundations of all kinds. Particularly foundations and associations that helped younger folks. Nix had always found it strange to see this ancient old woman - she was well over 90 - donating money and holding the occasional fundraiser for Planned Parenthood or LGBTQIA associations. She always suspected it was a way to make it up to her son, but she never asked. 

Nix was not involved in the fundraising or associations - she was no socialite. But she offered her support, and sometimes gave recommendations. She knew Zetiva had recommended the Taylors to her grandmother, two days after she had called to offer her help, she was not surprised by the phone call. She was surprised that she had to go see her grandmother though. 

She rarely went to see her, not wishing to bother her. She always found endearing how her grandmother managed to make her flat look like a manor. Perhaps because of her presence. She came with the usual flowers - orchids her grandmother was so fond of, Venus Foot. 

“I trust you thought you were being sneaky.” The accusation came over tea, and Nix did not let that faze her. It was not unusual, and she had a reputation. 

“Not enough, apparently. You mean the Taylors.”

Her grandmother simply nodded over her cup of tea. Nix was briefly reminded of the Dowager in Downton Abbey. If Maggie Smith was 1m50. 

“It is the only way to get to them.”

“You know I dislike you using society to get to people.”

“If I had another way to do so, I would not have bothered-” She was cut off by a dismissive gesture. 

“But you do. And I said I dislike it, not that I forbid it.” Her grandmother sipped her tea and carefully put the cup back on its saucer. Nix waited patiently. “I trust you know how to be discreet enough.”

Nix raised an eyebrow and almost asked her grandmother who exactly thought they were being sneaky. Except she would never dare. Not out of respect for her elders but because she always suspected her grandmother of being the stabby one in her generation and it was not a theory she was willing to test. 

“Not that you will tell me anything.” Her grandmother smiled knowingly. She sobered up and went on. “Zetiva recommended them as donors, but did not propose a foundation for them to become patrons of. Which foundation would you like to enroll them in?”

“The shelter for queer kids. Seems fitting.” 

“I recant my judgement. You are sneaky. Just like your father.” A pause. “Consider it done. Of course, it would be best if I went in person to make my offer, but as you know, my old age prevents me from making social calls anymore.”

Nix’s grin mirrored her grandmother’s. It was an open secret that her grandmother only pleaded her age when she considered something below her dignity. Or when she wanted someone else to do it. 

“It would be best to send me, then. After all, I am a friend of Zetiva, and the only relative in town who could make such calls.”

“Actually, it was more because you are also involved. But indeed. I shall make the call and give you a time and date. Do you have any obligations?” 

“Not really.” She thought of her tools - it would work. “Dinner would work best for me. And maybe before the 7th, if that would work.”

Her grandmother scoffed. “Pushy child. Fine. I will call you by the end of this week.”

“Thank you, grandmama.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon talking about the kids, and how Nix should really know better than having needles jammed into her epidermis for fun. But it was all in good spirits, and Nix got to learn all there was to know about the latest family shenanigans. The next family gathering will be interesting. 

Contacting the Taylors proved to be exceedingly easy the instant she got the greenlight from her grandmother. Arrangements were made, and now, Nix was getting ready for the grand finale. She had read her notes again, and put the files in her briefcase. After all, it was supposed to be a professional dinner. She was getting ready, and was busy preening so that she missed Walon coming up besides her until he spoke up. 

“Not sure it was on purpose, but… evening, Doctor Lecter.”

She snorted, and turned to look at him. “I am even bringing Chianti so there’s that.”

“Don’t forget the fava beans.” Walon was smiling and Nix was for a moment reminded that Walon was in a similar trade as her - and it showed. He looked predatory. 

“They might not fit with the rest of the meal. You want the last supper to be perfect.” 

He tilted his head to the side, huffing a laugh. He extended her a hand and she took it, slowly twirling. “Dressed for murder.” He stopped her, his expression sober: “Call me if there is anything that comes up.”

She raised an eyebrow, ready to inquire why he was saying this, but he beat her to it, explaining that Jango had told him of the last time she got poisoned on a job. 

“If I get into trouble tonight, you will have to bury me in the backyard. No one would survive that.”

“Don’t fuck it up. I’m not explaining to your kids and Jango - or worse, Zetiva - how you disappeared. I value my life.”

She grinned. “Promise.” On a whim, she rose to tiptoes - he was too tall, and she was not exactly short herself - and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. There’s food in the fridge, but keep the meat for tomorrow.” 

She was already halfway down the stairs when he shouted that he was not a child and he could get around the house just fine. She took out the metal container from the fridge and immediately put in a cooler she had stacked with ice. Another bag with wine, and she was on her way. And if she was humming an air from Faust, no one but her heard it. 

The Taylors lived in a fairly affluent part of town. They had money, and the status was something they looked after. Ironically, they lived close to where her grandmother lived. She felt almost sorry for them - it was her name, an old name, that landed her here. They would die. And no one would be looking for a culprit. 

Their house was everything she expected from people with money. Not that she could say specifically what made her think that. It was an ensemble of things. The windows, the porch, the patio, the way the garden was arranged. She parked down the street, not wishing to draw attention. It was a short walk to the entrance and on the way, she checked that her package was secure. 

She had no plan B. If it failed, she would try again - this time without being invited. But she was assured that her ‘tools’ would be effective. Her ‘retailer’ had warned her that all the batches from that area could not be sold. Which was why he made her a good price, and why he did not ask questions. 

Nix rang and waited. Not for long. She was not sure what she had expected, but the brisk click of heels on the floor - wood - was so similar to that of her aunt that she braced herself. The door opened and it took her less than a second to take in the perfectly coiffed hair, tasteful attire, and statuesque countenance of the woman in front of her. Killer’s mother. She could see some similarities, but where Killer was warm and endearing, this woman screamed cold as a death. Meanwhile her mouth was already working to set into her most amiable smile, making her look both younger and less threatening.

“Mrs Taylor, good evening. Caterina Scaligieri.” She was not late, not by the usual good manners standards. She had promised her grandmother to be on her best behaviour, after all. 

“Miss Scaligieri, of course. Welcome, please do come in.” Her voice - there was something unpleasant about her voice and Nix could not place it. 

Nix dipped her head and thanked her before stepping inside, careful to step quietly. She was wearing heels - and if Killer’s mother looked down, she would notice they were the same as another she owned. She had no coat, the wine she had brought did not need decanting, and she had cleaned the oysters before leaving - to make sure her hosts did not have to do anything. Mrs Taylor took the wine and took the container to the kitchen, after assuring Nix that she really should not have, quality oysters were so difficult to find, especially fresh ones. 

They were not, in fact, difficult to find, but it was exactly the type of talk Nix was expecting. Not inane, but the kind to enter the good grace of your guest. And to be fair, the kind that Nix had brought were difficult to find, most notably because they never made it to retail. 

Their conversation was everything Nix hated in the social gatherings she had had to participate in since childhood. Work, fields of expertise. Apparently, being a university professor after having also taught in highschool was a feat - not that Nix was very precise in her answers. After all, facts were unimportant: most of these conversations were pissing contests, even if, at the moment, the Taylors did need her to intercede with her grandmother - the Scaligieri matriarch. The goal was to learn as much as you could without giving too much information. Unfortunately for them, Nix was a good enough hunter to read them. 

And as the conversation progressed from work to children - for there were pictures of Killer as child - family pictures perpetuating the happy family myth. His eyes were empty in many of them, and her rage grew. She let it flow through her. She saw it plain as day - appearances being held up to a near religion, perfection to be attained in all things. A picture of Mrs Taylor riding - dressage. 

“Do you still ride, Mrs Taylor? I couldn’t help but notice this picture. Was this a contest?”

“Indeed.” A subtle move of her head, sitting straighter if it was possible. Holding her head like on dancers and riders would. “It was one of my last contest before our son was born. Do you ride, Ms Scaliegeri?” 

“I used to. It was part of my, shall we say, obligations.” She had been given a choice - riding or ballet, and ballet would mean being compared to her older sister. At 6, she was already going against the grain. “I might go back to it, if one of my sons ever showed an interest.” 

Mrs Taylor inclined her head in understanding. “That is very good of you”  _ absolutely appalling _ “to let your sons choose for themselves. Although we firmly believe in striving for excellence.”

Nix took a sip of her champagne. Veuve Clicquot, they really did not need to. “Your son rides?”

“As a child, yes. A bad fall kept him from the field for too long, and it may have become risky.” 

Nix saw it in their eyes - the same training she had. Crop between elbows and back, having to ride without stirrups to make sure you kept your balance. But her parents had kept away from her training. She could not imagine the pressure and potential dangers of being less than excellent for a child growing up with such parents. She recalled having been threatened to have weights tied to her ankles to keep her legs still. 

She blinked slowly, immersing herself in the present again. Mrs Taylor excused herself, ever the perfect hostess, to bring dinner to the table. Nix shifted, outwardly at ease, inwardly fidgeting - she hated judgemental silence. Mr Taylor’s eyes focused on something and, fearing that her suit had a stain she had missed, she looked. A few lines of her tattoo showed from under her left sleeve. She adjusted herself, not offering an explanation. She was asked none. It was fine, for soon they were invited to rise to go to the table. Starters - the oysters and foie gras and magret and other delicacies. Better served cold. Once they were served, Nix declined oysters, citing allergies. 

“You should not have, bringing something you cannot eat.” 

True, it was unusual. “Indeed, but my grandmother recommended them, and it seemed to be a shame not to, regardless of personal taste. I promise it is no trouble at all.”

Mr Taylor spoke for the second time that night. Not that he needed to talk before - Nix could practically hear the judgement. He must find her accent grating - not her fault if she learned British English first and stuck to her guns, reverting to it when in proper company.

“I believe you have information to give us?” 

Mrs Taylor had already eaten one of the oysters. Nix glanced at the gilded clock - an original, the kind that cost more than a luxury car. Or several. She had 30 minutes, perhaps less. She waited for Mr Taylor to help himself as she took a bite from her foie gras. 

“I do. As you know, my grandmother runs several charities, and you were warmly recommended by a dear friend of mine. My grandmother would need more donors for one in particular, and it is a privilege to be chosen as a contributor.” She paused. She had their attention. “It would be for the shelter for queer youths. It is something that is very dear to us, and grandmother has expressed the wish to expand, in order to enroll more specialists and caretakers to support these kids, even beyond the shelter itself, for those who find themselves stuck in abusive situations.” 

“We would be thrilled, of course.” Mrs Taylor seemed genuinely interested, while her husband was probably calculating. “It is indeed a very worthy endeavour. So many children need help.” 

_ Yours did, and soon, you will be beyond any help. _ Nix contained her scowl, and dipped her head. The oysters were dwindling. She just needed to keep them talking for a while. So the conversation went on until… until they were not feeling so good anymore. She remained perfectly still, finishing her food. 

“You may start feeling odd, that’s perfectly normal. And I think you deserve to know why I am really here.” 

A dark part of her mind relished the surprise, the sudden fear that came with pain. 

“See, it came to my attention that your son would probably have benefited from that shelter.” She helped herself to some fig chutney. If Walon had compared her to Hannibal, he would be proud. “Not that you seemed to grasp the irony.” She smiled, and it was a ghastly sight, all teeth and no humour. 

“This,” she said as she was finishing her food, “is retribution.”

“You’re mad!” The façade had crumbled from them both, the masks sat, broken, on their face, and she could see them for what they were. Cold. Dead inside. Contemptible. 

“Am I?” She retrieved her case, and took out her papers. She put them on the table, so that they could see. “I know what you did. The abuse, both physical and psychological. How you went doctor shopping to avoid detection, apparently. How you denied care to your son after a hospital physician recommended psychological treatment.” She spat the last sentence. “And because you had money, you thought you could get away with it.”

“It’s our business, how dare you!” Mrs Taylor was interrupted shortness of breath, and she was shaking. 

Nix got up, her anger bleeding through, her tone growing slow, her voice growing menacing. “How dare I? How dare  _ you _ abuse your child for years? How dare you do that, when you, as parents, should have protected him? Is social advancement, are appearances worth breaking down your own child? Or was he meant to be one of those trophy children, to be seen, not heard, just because you wanted to win the happy family look bingo? Tell me this.”

She glanced at the clock. She had a few more minutes, and both were still conscious, holding on to the table, as though they did not realise the situation. 

“I have read everything. I have all of his medical files. And I could turn you in to the authorities. As you know, some crimes can be prescribed, but child abuse is not here. And you would face jail.” She stared at Mr Taylor in the eye. “And if memory serves, child abusers are not exactly greeted with open arms. The court would not be lenient. And you could not even plead Munchausen by proxy.” She trailed off. 

She waited, as they paled and the symptoms got clearer. The clock. They did not have much time - not enough to be saved even if they managed to call a hospital. 

“You. Are going to die. And no one will know why. It will be just another shellfish toxic shock. Now, people might wonder why you were eating oysters now, as the bans have not been lifted yet.” A gurgle answered her. The reaper was closing in on Mrs Taylor. “But you are well-off, and known for your desire to always impress. And no one would know there was a third person with you tonight.” 

They were at death’s door, she could tell. She felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. And when she spoke again, as they were both desperately trying to breathe. 

“You are dying because that seems to be the only way to free your son from you. And though he might grieve, it will still be better than more decades in your shadow.” 

She did not wait more, and took her plate, cutlery and glasses, to the kitchen. Luckily, the dishwasher was almost full, and already with the same types of dishes. She filled it and, above the open door, pulled on her gloves. She rarely bothered, but she rarely dined with targets. She launched a cycle - while asking herself what kind of heathen would put glasses in the dishwasher - but again, no one else was supposed to see the kitchen. 

She made her way back to the dining room. Mr Taylor had tried to reach for the phone. But too late. It was a mess, and it reminded her why she disliked shellfish that much. Toxic shock was definitely not pretty. She checked their pulse, out of habit. 

Satisfied, she carefully put her unused napkin back in the drawer where it came from - a drawer for napkins… Felt like grandmama’s house. She checked that she had not forgotten anything, and packed carefully all the papers. She left the lights on - no one would notice, with the curtains drawn - and made her way out, carefully closed the door. 

The night was cold. Everything was dark, and all the neighbouring homes were silent and blind. So afraid of burglars that they missed a murder most foul. She smiled inwardly and, after making it to the fence without making any noise, walked back to her care as though two corpses were not cooling down in the house she just left. 

The drive home was uneventful, and she did not see Walon as she made her way to the backyard to burn the papers. They did not have a neighbour on that side, and no one would care. She used the pizza oven, the papers burning easily. She was breathing slowly, deliberately so. Letting go of her previous anger, the contempt, the unadulterated hatred she felt. The fire was cleansing, warm after the freezing cold of that house. A house that felt like no child ever laughed there. And maybe she was wrong, maybe Killer did have a nice childhood before. But she would not ask. They were now gone, and with each document added to the fire, she erased the evening from her short term memory. 

She never forgot a kill. Never would forget one. But she would have to be neutral. And once the ashes had stopped glowing, she was herself again. Nix. Cat. Mom. She took her case and went in, removing her shoes to be as silent as possible. She did not want to wake Walon. Upstairs. Clothes in the hamper. Shower. Dry. Teeth. Pajamas. She was on her way to the room that was unoccupied when she heard Walon’s voice, telling her to just come over. 

“I woke you?”, she asked, as she peered in the ‘dodo time’ room. 

“No.” The bedside lamp was turned on. “Wanted to make sure you came home. I’d have come to get you before dawn, otherwise.”

“Knight of Dawn, sweet.” She yawned, suddenly exhausted. She did not argue anymore, and went to bed, settling close to him, not wishing to impose, until he motioned for her to get closer. Which she did. She was freezing. 

The light went out. “Good night, Nix.”

“‘Night.”

“No alarm clock tomorrow, though.”

“Thanks.” She missed Jango, for an instant. She was more used to having Jango around when she came back from work. But Jango was not here, and Walon was. And they probably both felt the same. She was glad that neither of them ever asked her about her jobs. She never asked either. 

“Walon?” A hum answered her. “I was channeling Hannibal, you would have been proud.”

He held her tighter, his praise slightly slurred, but he sounded like he was smiling anyway, and that was good. It got better when Mird came in and jumped between them to purr and make biscuits, the sound soothing, lulling them into sleep. 


End file.
